


The Cat that got the Cream

by ifinkufreaky



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Boot Worship, F/M, Face Slapping, Humiliation, Multi, Public Sex, Rape Fantasy, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Serial Killer Ivar, Sexual Slavery, Slurs, Spanking, dark!Hvitserk, dark!Ivar, dirty old man Harald
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 12:31:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11967456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifinkufreaky/pseuds/ifinkufreaky
Summary: The reader is a thrall to Ivar and Hvitserk; set in my speculation of season five where Ivar has cemented his alliance with King Harald Finehair. A dropped pitcher at dinner leads to very creative punishments from all three of them and the reader tries to choose between the best of bad options... very dark and truly sadistic Ivar, beastly Hvitserk, dirty old man Harald





	The Cat that got the Cream

**Author's Note:**

> Ok time for one of my very long disclaimers: This right here is a fantasy. A noncon master/slave style rape fantasy. The kind of thing I’d never wish on a living breathing person but would absolutely love to act out in a negotiated BDSM scene with everyone’s clear consent. So this paragraph right here is like the negotiation framing the scene, yes? The reader desires to experience pain and degradation at the hands of Ivar, Hvitserk, and King Harald Finehair. Activities will include spanking, boot licking, face slapping, anal and vaginal fingering, humiliation, verbal slurs, threats of violence, public and rough sex. Proceed only if you so desire.

 

You swallow your nerves as you take the heavy clay pitcher of ale up to the head table in the hall. Prince Ivar and King Harald are celebrating their new alliance and things are already getting rowdy. All you want is to get in, get out, and escape every man’s attention before the night is through.

You start refilling cups at the right, as Hvitserk is the first to notice you and raises his horn for more ale. This quiet prince has two moods, stone-faced or grinning, and you are thankful that right now it is the former. It means he is less likely to pull you into his lap when you get there. All of these Vikings are so rough and sloppy when they are drunk; you do your best to stay out of their beds on feast nights if you can help it.

Hvitserk barely looks at you as you tip the large flagon over the horn in his hand; he is too caught up in trying to hear Ivar and Harald as they speak together in hushed tones to his left. You only spill a little as you maneuver the unwieldy thing, and the prince doesn’t seem to notice.

Ivar has been drinking from a Saxon cup; it sits empty on the table at his elbow. You can easily reach it from where you stand now between the brothers and so you sneak the refill in quickly, grateful that his back is to you and you can fulfill your duties without him even becoming aware of you.

You step back to continue down the line. King Harald meets your eye with an inscrutable look as he listens to Ivar rant on about Lagertha’s faults. He smiles like a wolf pretending to be a sheep and lifts his cup, beckoning you over.

You can’t help but stare at the way Ivar’s face contorts as he rages on, expressive lips working around words so heated it is as if his body can barely contain them. The youngest Ragnarsson often seems to be made of nothing but fire, ready to burn anything in the world that falls before his eyes.

When Harald’s cup is filled you pivot to retreat, still distracted by Ivar’s beautiful, terrible countenance. He has a way of hypnotizing you despite your more rational urges to run. And so you are taken entirely by surprise when you feel King Finehair’s large hand cup your ass, groping fingers plunging between your cheeks as he squeezes more firmly than is comfortable.

You yelp at first in surprise and then in despair as the heavy clay pitcher falls from your hands, shattering on the ground between Harald and Ivar, soaking their boots and the bottom of your skirts in fragrant ale.

Harald only laughs but Ivar is fuming. “I am so sorry!” you exclaim, dropping to your knees and trying lamely to pick up the pieces littering the floor.

“This one makes a better bed slave than serving maid, that is for certain,” you hear Ivar say acidly over your head.

“Is that so,” Harald muses, and your cheeks begin to burn.

“Excuse me while I go punish her,” Ivar says next, and your stomach drops.

You look up to see Harald’s eyes twinkling down on you. “Why not do it here? I find that giving these girls what’s coming to them can be highly entertaining. She can start by cleaning our boots off with her tongue.”

Your shocked eyes flick to Prince Ivar, knowing if you protest things will only get worse for you but hoping to all of the gods that your master sees how ridiculous that proposition is. Alas, Ivar’s face has brightened with amusement. He curls his tongue between his teeth as he locks eyes with you, then spreads his open hand in the air, indicating his feet. “Sounds like an excellent start towards making amends.”

So there is no getting out of this. You do your best not to think about what you are doing as you lean forward, dipping your head below Ivar’s bound knees. You know you are going to have to properly clean his brace at least after this is over; the ale can’t be good for the leather. You’ve just opened your mouth above the toe of his boot when Ivar makes a chiding noise.

“Guests first, Y/N,” he reminds you. “I am sorry,” he says over your head to Harald, “she really cannot do anything right. Not out here at least.”

Harald makes a rumbling noise in the back of his throat as he lifts one foot toward your face. “She is better in the bedroom, then?” he asks, almost conversationally. But when you glance up like a frightened kitten over the top of his boot, King Finehair’s glittering eyes are resting only on you. Ivar makes an affirmative noise just as Harald addresses you directly. “Well?” He nudges your cheek with his ale-soaked toe. “Get on with it, girl.”

His look is smug and strange as he watches you extend your tongue and draw it lightly along the leather of his boot, from where the laces start at the bridge of his foot all the way up to mid-shin. You keep your eyes locked on his the whole time, assuming this is a symbolic, not an earnest task, and the more sexually arousing you can make it the quicker they will be to let you stop and move on to something else.

You assume you are succeeding when you see Harald’s pupils blow wide by the conclusion of your stroke, hear another rumbling growl bubble up out of his throat. “I think I can see what you mean, young Ivar,” he says without looking up, then to you: “Again, girl.” His smile is dark and mocking. “It is going to take more than one pass to get all that mess off.”

You do your best to hide your gagging disappointment at his words, lick another neat stripe next to your last one. He can’t truly think that a tongue can clean leather properly. You just have to get him interested in a different game. You bend low and arch your back, sticking your ass out as far as you can, wiggle it just a little to tempt his mind in other directions.

“You look like a cat down there, Y/N,” Ivar teases from behind you, cruel tone bleeding into his voice that lets you know your evening is about to be long and painful. “I see you wiggling that little tail. Should we call you kitten tonight? Make you lick absolutely everything clean?”

His words should not excite you as much as they do. You know he could very well mean that literally.

“She spilled on me too,” Hvitserk interrupts from behind his brother. “Splashed on my hand when she was refilling my cup.”

Ivar chuckles, then grabs the braid hanging down your back and yanks your head up. “Is that so?” You nod quickly, silently praising Hvitserk for saving you from the floor. “Then the kitten will have to tend to you too.” Ivar grasps the side of your head and shoves you behind him, in Hvitserk’s general direction. “Hands and knees, kitten.”

Your ass tingles as you make your way over to Hvitserk; you can feel King Harald is watching it sway as you move away from him. You put a little extra hip roll in it, now that your objective has changed from “avoid all beds tonight” to “just try not to end up in Ivar’s.” While your master’s black moods were sexy, they usually involved much more pain than pleasure, even for his favorite girl. You do not know much about King Harald but odds are serving him would be vastly preferable to what Ivar may be dreaming up for you.

Or you could take your chances trying to inspire Hvitserk to steal you away and take over the rest of your punishment. If Ivar notices your intention you’ll pay double, but it might be worth the gamble. You look deep into the blonde prince’s eyes as you crawl up to him, making your movements sinuous and playful. Hvitserk likes to play. He grins at you and extends his hand, the one you had sloshed ale on earlier. You open your lips wide and lick along the back of it, then seal your mouth over the sensitive skin between fingers and thumb and suck at him softly. The prince’s smile goes internal as he enjoys the sensations of your tongue.

Hvitserk leans forward. “A few drops spilled on my pants here too,” he says, voice husky, indicating an area that did indeed look wet just to the side of his crotch.

“I suppose she’ll have to lick that too,” Ivar says dryly, and you realize in a flash of nerves he is already getting bored with this game. And a bored Ivar is especially dangerous to little slave girls.

Still, you moisten your lips like you haven’t a care in the world as you lay your hands on Hviterk’s thighs and part his legs slowly so you can bring your body close to his. He can’t help but run his hand over your hair and guide your head down to taste that dark spot on his breeches.

It is not ale. You feel the spongy hardness of Hvitserk’s cock when you press your tongue to the fabric, and realize as you taste the salt that his pants had actually been moistened by the first leaking arousal coming from his tip. Clearly you had achieved your first objective, making your preferred Ragnarsson want you this evening. But would he be willing to fight Ivar over you?

You lock your lips over the outline of Hvitserk’s tip through the rough fabric and purr loudly, playing up the kitten angle, making him twitch and clutch you harder to himself.

Harald’s voice interrupts your show. “She likes this too much, I think.” You are happy no one can see your face pout at that. “If this is to be a punishment for her, we had better try something different.”

“Agreed,” Ivar scowls, and snatches at your braid again. As he pulls you off Hvitserk he is sweeping his other arm across the table, clearing a space for your chest to land as he pushes you over the thick, worn planks. He keeps pushing until your hips hit the edge of the table, then he starts rucking up your skirts. “This is what we usually do with clumsy, disobedient girls here. And as an additional benefit, King Harald, you’ll get to make a good inspection of her. Guests get the first choice of bed-warmers, too. Provided I decide this one deserves to spend tonight in a bed.”

It will be harder to control your fate, now that your face is pressed into the table and you will be expected to sit still until your corporal punishment is over. Rough hands, palms covered in stiff leather, slide the hem of your skirt up over your hips until your ass is laid bare to the three most important men in the room. The hum of conversation in the rest of the hall seems to quiet but you don’t look up; you don’t want to know how many people are paying attention to what’s about to happen to you.

Ivar only massages your flesh at first. His movements feel proprietary; like he’s showing you off to Harald but he is not sure he actually wishes to let you go.

You hear King Finehair make a low noise of appreciation. “She does have a particularly fine ass,” he says. “May I?”

A moment later you feel new hands on you. Ivar’s retreat. Harald’s fingers explore you methodically, first spreading over the wide expanse of your cheeks, then taking hold on either side and pulling them apart, exposing your sex fully to his eyes. His thumbs tickle along the edges of your opening, and you decide to risk a moan, trying to entice him.

“Shut up, slut,” Ivar reprimands you instantly. “That is not what you are bent over on this table for and you know it.” His next words are for Harald. “I will warn you, this one tries to manipulate.”

If anything, Harald’s touch feels even more appreciative after that. “I find it refreshing to see a slave that tries much of anything,” he replies thoughtfully. “There’s fun in the women who cry and scream and fight you, but there is a different kind of fun in those that do not. Those that seek pleasure willingly, and will do anything to get it from you.”

“Oh she will do just about anything,” Ivar says wryly. “As you have seen. She can be a very nasty, dirty little girl.”

Harald’s answering chuckle is low and knowing. He slides one finger between your folds, then presses it casually into your depths. From the lack of resistance you can guess how wet you must be already. He retreats after a moment, cups your ass again. His finger pulls a sticky line of arousal with it along your bare flesh.

“It is almost too bad you are about to ruin all this soft, smooth skin,” he muses.

“That depends on how you look at it, Harald,” Ivar replies. “I find bruises and broken skin to be quite an improvement on this one.”

Harald laughs again, and you try not to jump too far when he pinches you suddenly. “Then let’s not delay her punishment any further.”

There is silence, then, and all hands retreat from you. You wonder who it is that will deliver the blows. Most likely Ivar but you cannot be sure, not unless you turn around, and you know from experience that will only get you slapped across the face. You try not to look out at the other people in the room, either. You used to think it might distract you but it usually just makes things worse: the pity on the faces of the other girls, the hunger and cruelty in the reactions of the warriors. Only the most bloodthirsty, the most heartless of them stayed with Ivar and Hvitserk, and Harald’s men do not seem to be any better. You will find no comfort in the eyes of this crowd.

The first few strikes are not so bad. He is still warming up. Actually since Harald had awakened your pleasure center first, they almost feel pleasant. You turn your head to the right, though you keep it obediently pressed against the table. You open your eyes and realize Hvitserk can see your face from this angle. Is, in fact, staring at you ravenously. Maybe there is still hope for your escape.

A blow with a stinging edge falls on your outer hip and now you are certain the hand is Ivar’s, still clad in his protective bracers. You let the pain show in your expression, but only a little; Hvitserk likes watching you suffer but not in the same way that Ivar does. The elder brother is more interested in the game, and he still wants you to look pretty for him in your pain. As your body rocks with Ivar’s impacts you keep your eyes on Hvitserk, letting them plead with him. _I’ll take such good care of you, just please come over here and make this stop._ The blonde shakes his head, still smiling sharply. He slides his hand over his crotch but makes no move to intercede.

Eventually the pain reaches an intensity that forces you to close your eyes. Ivar’s bracers are going to leave welts on you, that’s for certain. Maybe you can still hope Harald will stop him before Ivar makes it too hard for you to please him tonight.

As if summoned, you feel the king’s hand return to caress the top of your upturned ass. The speed and force of Ivar’s onslaught lessens, though it doesn’t stop. His strikes move down to the fresher flesh of your thighs so Harald has room to explore. Finehair’s hand is so soothing on your troubled flesh you can’t help but moan again, though it comes out as an odd strangled noise when Ivar hits a soft spot just at the same time.

“Stop for a moment,” Harald’s gravelly voice interrupts, and Ivar actually complies. He really does take guest-rights seriously. Harald’s hands spread your cheeks again and you feel a wet finger pressing against your asshole. You make an odd whimper at the surprise of it, fearing he won’t be gentle, but Harald works his way in slowly and you sigh as you try to relax and let him. This isn’t the first time such a thing has been asked of you and you know how to make it easier on yourself. You hear the king make a satisfied sound as he starts to move that digit rhythmically inside of you. “Dirty girl indeed. Is there anything that she does not like?” he asks incredulously.

“I have found a few things,” Ivar says cryptically, then resumes your spanking with Harald still fucking your asshole. Your body rocks around the axis of his finger and it gives you something else to focus on, an anchor in the pain while these men use and abuse you. You imagine your pussy might start dripping onto the floor soon, wonder if you’ll be punished even more for that.

You open your eyes to catch Hvitserk’s again, not even sure what you’re pleading for with him now. Hvitserk leans forward, then laughs softly in your face. “I think she wants to come,” he informs the others.

Harald guffaws but Ivar only strikes you harder. “She will certainly do no such thing,” your master commands. “She is being punished.”

 Your cunt is aching at the gleam in Hvitserk’s eye; he wants to come too. Harald’s finger continues to pound your ass and you need more, you need Hvitserk to take what he wants. “Please,” you silently mouth at him.

“I’ll punish her with my cock,” Hvitserk growls, already fumbling with his breeches. “Move aside, Ivar.”

Ivar whacks you one more time, dead-center on your aching cheek, then you hear him sniff. “I suppose I have turned her ass purple enough.” Harald’s finger slows too, a welcome relief that makes your breath escape in a little sob. “But King Harald has first choice tonight,” Ivar continues, “and he may not want you to fuck her, brother.”

You lay motionless across the table, bare ass prickling in the cool air, asshole puckered around Harald’s finger and cunt practically spasming for some kind of contact. But you know you must be still and let your betters decide your fate; the more eager you act the less Ivar is likely to allow you to receive anything even close to pleasure. Hvitserk’s leg brushes against your oversensitive thigh as he steps up behind you. “This will be quick, Harald. One last piece of her penalty and then you can take her back to your bed for the rest of the night.”

The intruding finger finally slides out of your body and you hear Harald’s chair scrape back. “She is your slave, of course. I will not interfere with the way you discipline your girls around here.” His growling laugh sends a shock straight to your neglected cunt and you are suddenly very much looking forward to going back with the would-be King of All Norway when this is over. “In fact, you are giving me some wonderful new ideas.”

Hvitserk chuckles darkly too. You hear the sound of rustling fabric and then you yelp as he slaps the shaft of his solid erection against your bruised and exposed flesh. Your reaction earns you a pleased noise and he does it a few more times before bending over you. He rubs his tip against your desperate cunt but does not press inside. “Have you learned your lesson, Y/N?” he murmurs in your ear.

“Yes,” you cry, trying to sound as sincere as possible.

“And what is it that you have you learned?” His breath is hot and fragrant with the ale that started this all.

The taste of that ale licked off of old leather fills your mouth as you remember the answer to his question. You were taking all of this because of nothing more than a dropped pitcher. The crime never fit the punishment with these two; always it was just an excuse for their sadistic games. “I should be more careful, my Prince,” you choke out.

“That is right,” Ivar says. He is seated next to you now, elbow propped up on the edge of the table a few handspans away from your hips. He reaches over and starts playing idly with your hair. “You are clumsy, and careless, Y/N, and you are good for nothing but fucking. Are you ready to get fucked now, in front of everyone in this hall? This is your chance to redeem yourself, and show everyone that you are not terrible at everything.”

If you had any pride left perhaps Ivar’s words may have crushed it, but you had accepted a long time ago that you were an unrepentant slut for your handsome masters. If they want all their men and all your fellow thralls to watch what they do to you, so be it. You bite your lip, summon a little feigned reluctance and shame, and nod, flicking your eyes between Ivar beside you and Hvitserk above.

“Say it,” Hvitserk demands, bumping himself against you a bit more forcefully, making you wince as he was not quite lined up.

“I am ready for you to fuck me, Prince Hvitserk,” you say in a small, self-conscious voice.

Ivar leans forward with narrowed eyes. “Loud enough for all of them to hear.”

The youngest Ragnarsson is an expert at rooting out those tiny remnants of your pride, the ones you didn’t even know you had left, and squashing them out decisively.

You screw your eyes shut and raise your voice as loud as you can force yourself, feeling your cheeks redden before the words even start passing over your lips. “Fuck me, Hvitserk, please!” you shout, carrying yourself through the moment in your one small act of rebellion: dropping the honorific “Prince” with which you are supposed to address him.

He doesn’t seem to notice. Hvitserk lines himself up with rough fingers and buries his entire length inside you in one go. You expect such brutality from a punishment fucking but that doesn’t stop it from hurting on the first few strokes, before your body adjusts to the invasion and begins to welcome it. Hvitserk slams into you like a rutting stallion, grunting and holding you down at the back of your neck as if you were in danger of trying to escape. As if you have anywhere to run.

The only way to handle this intensity, the only way to take every inch he’s forcing into you, is to cry out, your voice rasping and wailing at every stroke. And so everyone can hear when your discomfort starts turning to pleasure, your body softening and soaking the way for him. Anyone paying attention would be able to see the way your hips stop bracing and start bucking up to receive him, to increase the delicious friction, to help your master reach just the right spot…

And Ivar is certainly paying attention. Your other master leans over the table alongside you, the expression in his brilliant eyes so ominous that you shut up instantly. He sets his face down next to yours, so close your noses brush together as your body rocks with Hvitserk’s impacts. “Don’t you dare _come_ now,” Ivar warns. “I will know if you do. If I see any relief in your face, you will not get to spend the night in that soft, warm guest bed sharing pleasure with our friend King Harald. If you let my brother make you climax, you are coming back with _me_ instead. And I will amuse myself abusing your flesh some more. There are still so many smooth, untouched places on your body. And plenty that have had a long time to heal since the last time I touched you. Then while I sleep you will spend the rest of the night shivering, naked on my floor. And I have been hearing rats scurrying about down there.”

His words should have shut your arousal down cold, but somehow they only feed the need tightening all of the muscles inside your core. You watch the continued threats falling from Ivar’s perfect lips and begin to despair. Now you are cringing away from Hvitserk again, trying to reduce the knot of passion building in your sex, knowing Ivar is capable of every word. It’s no use pleading with him the way you did with Hvitserk but you cannot tear your eyes off the younger Ragnarsson, and he watches your terror with sick satisfaction.

The elder brother grasps at your hips, pulling you back into the sweet angle you had just been trying to abandon. He rubs his cock over and over against that wonderful spot inside you, building the heat back up inside your core now almost entirely against your will.

You try to close your eyes, think of something else, to hold your orgasm at bay as long as possible. Almost immediately Ivar’s hand cracks down your face, a lazy slap that is repeated when you don’t immediately respond. “Open your eyes.”

Your vision is clouded with a veil of tears when you finally comply. Silently you beg as you hold your breath, try to stifle your cries of fear and pleasure though you know that the man before you has never shown an ounce of mercy.

You are saved only by the stutter of Hvitserk’s hips as he reaches his own climax while you teeter on the very brink of your own. You smile in sweaty, harrowed triumph just as disappointment flits over Ivar’s face. Hvitserk moans out his final spasming moments over your back as you pant and make sure to keep yourself from following him.

Ivar settles into another cool grin as Hvitserk straightens and pulls himself out of you. Thinking your ordeal is over, you try to rise as well but Ivar’s right hand shoots out, pressing you back into the table. His left creeps down to your sex, two fingers searching through your oozing folds for the little bud of pleasure nestled under your pelvic bone.

“No!” you wail. The wonderful pressure as he traps your nub between his fingers is a white-hot burst through your entire lower body, so close to orgasm that everything starts clenching up on you.

Your master only smirks, intent on winning the evening through any means necessary.

“That is hardly fair, Ivar,” Harald growls, leaning forward again. “She survived her trial. Now she is mine to pleasure, or not. Either way I want her.”

Ivar grits his teeth, smile turning to snarl as he struggles with his choice. Will he really risk angering an ally, violating the custom of guest-rights, just over you?

He pinches your clit hard enough to make you squeal before withdrawing, then shoves you in Harald’s direction. “The whore is yours. I can give her what’s coming to her another night.”

Your limbs are so stiff from your ordeal on the table that you can do nothing but fall right into King Finehair’s lap. His strong arms are surprisingly reassuring as he catches you, settling you against his body. You are a bruised, sticky, flushed, and tear-streaked mess, but the look Harald gives you as you stare up into his wild, tattoo-covered face makes you feel absolutely beautiful. “Are you ready for more games, kitten?”


End file.
